


Ocean's Key

by DawnBreak (dawnbreak)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate History, Gen, M/M, Seafolk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 05:51:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2762036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnbreak/pseuds/DawnBreak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ages ago Morgoth split the world into three, creating a new sea south of the Grey Mountains which Durin’s Folk sail.  Fili is the young inheritor of a struggling merchant fleet whose life is saved by a seafolk, and who is pulled into a war of politics, religion, and ages-old betrayal that he desperately tries to prevent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue, part 1: The Wind's Key

“…And though the Valar triumphed, as he fled the defeated Morgoth cracked the world in three.”

“Good. Go on.”

Fili read on. “Thousands of Elves and Dwarves who lived in the Greenwood and the lands of Rhovanion drowned beneath the new sea, which consumed all but the peak of Mount Erebor. The land west of Ered Luin was also laid to waste, sunk beneath the Bel…gaerion… Sea. In this new water the Valar raised up the island of Numenor as a new home for the… I don’t know that rune.”

Deoli leaned in, steadying one leg against the deck so that his makeshift barrel-seat wouldn't roll out from under him. As he shifted the silver buttons of his grey waistcoat clinked like coins. “Edain.”

“What’s it mean?”

“What _does_ it mean.”

Fili huffed. A strand of blond hair caught the sea breeze and blew in his face. “What does it mean, then?”

“The race of Men. Edain who followed the Valar to Numenor became the Numenoreans.” Deoli tucked his son’s hair back. “And the Numenoreans were?” he prompted.

“The really old Men?”

Dwalin chuckled, passing by with an armful of tackle. “That’s a way to put it,” the grizzled sailor said.

Deoli frowned. “Their history was not so simple, but I suppose they were distinguished by longevity. Keep reading.”

Fili squinted at the book in his lap. “I lost my place.”

It was hard to concentrate on Khuzdul lessons with the afternoon sun seeping into his skin. The smell of sea spray beckoned, while the gentle rolling of the _Wind’s Key_ lazily propelled them toward a horizon blue and warm as a robin’s egg. The sea was bursting with inviting distractions for a lad of sixteen.

A voice deep as mines beneath mountains rumbled out. “Then the Longbeards vowed to avenge their lost kin. They made the Lonely Island their home and took to the seas to reclaim the waters of Rhovanion… to strike fear of Durin’s Folk into Morgoth’s minions!”

Hands, calloused and broad, snuck around Fili’s middle and tossed him into the air. Fili yelped and laughed as the sky reached that much closer.

“Thorin,” Deoli sighed, but a smile tugged at his lips. Fili grinned as he was swung up against his uncle’s broad shoulders. “Stop interrupting your nephew’s lessons, you rapscallion.”

“Anything he can learn from books, he can learn better from sailors,” Thorin replied easily. “Isn't that right, nephew?”

“Right!”

Dwalin plunked down onto the barrel next to Deoli’s. “Aye! Ye can ask us anything, laddie.”

Deoli raised a wry eyebrow. “Anything? Dangerous challenge to make my son.”

“Try me.”

Fili thought. “What’s a rapscallion?”

“A great and courageous dwarf,” Thorin answered, solemn as stone. Dwalin guffawed.

Deoli threw his hands up. “You interrupt my son’s lessons and feed him lies? Thorin-son-Thrain, you sink to new depths.”

“All the way to the bottom of the ocean.” Thorin winked at Fili. “To join our forefathers in their silent graves deep.”

“And the seafolk in their water-palaces!” Fili added.

This gave Thorin pause.

“And telling fey tales to boot,” Deoli observed. “With what nonsense have you been filling my son’s head, brother?”

Thorin held up his great big hands. “That one wasn't me. I’d not tell stories about the seafolk.”

“Musta been Gloin,” said Dwalin. “He’s such a romantic sop. Thinks the seafolk a harmless myth and collects all the pretty tales about them.”

Deoli looked at Fili. “Did Gloin tell you those stories, son?”

“No,” he replied, crossing his fingers. Dwalin saw and gave him a wink. Flushing, Fili amended, “Well, maybe.”

“Maybe?”

Fili paused. Persuading people with words took a small part quick wit and a greater part careful planning. That was what his father lectured, and since Deoli could talk circles around other merchants and bargain the mithril off a moneylender, Fili believed him.

“Cousin Gloin did tell me where the seafolk live,” he said slowly. “Beneath the sea, in palaces and kingdoms of coral and stone and jewels. They can swim fast as the wind and farther than the sleekest caravels. And they never need to breathe because they have gills like sharks.”

“If only you remembered your lessons half so well. Are not real histories as interesting?”

“Seafolk stories are loads better!” Fili protested, momentarily sidetracked. “And anyway, they’re real too.”

His father raised an eyebrow. “You must see a thing to prove it, Fili.”

There was his trump card. Excited, he straightened against Uncle Thorin’s back and declared, “I did see one!”

Dwalin exclaimed “Ho-ho!” and Uncle Thorin’s shoulders twitched under his hands. His father simply leaned forward on his barrel-seat. “And when was this?”

“Last night, when you were reading me _The Shattering of the Lamps_.”

“I didn’t see anyone.”

“He was hidden in the waves just past the starboard aftcastle, listening to you read,” Fili insisted. “A boy like me, but wet and slick-skinned.”

His father tilted his head, clearly disbelieving, but the muscles in Uncle Thorin’s shoulders tightened like hard leather.

“The reflection from the deck lights-” Deoli started, but was interrupted by Dwalin standing abruptly.

“Thorin, wind’s changing. We ought to tack to starboard.”

Deoli frowned at him. “I didn’t feel anything.”

“Deoli,” Uncle Thorin said as Dwalin thumped away. His voice was deep as the fathomless water. “You may be a great scholar and the cleverest of merchants, but some things sailors are born knowing in their bones. This is one of them.”

Uncle Thorin crouched to let Fili down. The deck rocked beneath his feet like a playful puppy. In reaction he softened his knees, tuning into the movement of the waves. Dwalin said Fili had better sailor’s legs than anyone he had seen. The ocean was in his blood, like all of Durin’s heirs. Sometimes, lying in his bed at night, Fili imagined the blood pulsing and slowing through his veins with the swaying tide.

Fili’s father sat looking up at Uncle, blond brows furrowed with bewilderment. “You don’t believe the seafolk myths, do you?”

Uncle Thorin rolled his shoulders. His shirt shifted and the edge of a scar flashed above the collar. He was looking not at Fili’s father but past him, as though seeing a distant image painted in the rippling ocean.

“We don’t question either way,” he answered. “Sailors live and die every day by the whims of the sea. We listen to her legends. If one of those legends says that a race of shapechangers dwell beneath her waves… what brave fools would we be to disbelieve?”

He patted Fili’s head and strode away. Even though Uncle Thorin issued no orders, crew members sprang into action around him just the same.

Dwalin said kingship also ran in their blood… though of course there was no kingdom to be inherited. No kingdom had belonged to the Longbeards for thousands of years. Uncle Thorin didn’t even own the _Wind’s Key_ , he was just her captain. Deoli paid him to transport his goods.

Fili came to stand before his father, who remained still on his barrel with book forgotten on his lap. He looked uncertain, like a child told the sky is green in another country.

“Da, can I go help pull up the trawl-nets?” Fili asked.

Deoli gathered himself, blue gaze focusing on his son. “I’m sure you can.”

“Daaaa!” Fili groaned. “ _May_ I go pull up the trawl-nets, please?”

“You may. I suppose there’s no getting you to concentrate on lessons now.” Closing the book with care, Deoli gingerly pushed off the barrel. It took him longer to get his legs back, but then again he wasn't a Longbeard. He fixed his son with a pointed look. “But you will resume your studies after supper, understood?”

“Yes, Da.” He turned to scamper away but stopped. “Can we read more of _The Shattering of the Lamps_ tonight?”

His father saw right through him. “By the starboard aftcastle?”

Fili grinned sheepishly. Deoli sighed.

“Why not? If it’ll get you to sit still for once, I don’t mind educating a magical being or two at the same time.”

 

 

That night as his father read him the history of the First Age, Fili watched the sea like a hawk, but whether it was too dark or his seafolk had departed, no dark head reappeared.

He watched the next night too, and the next. On the fourth night Deoli handed him the book and made him practice reading aloud. Unfortunately, the flickering cast by lanterns against the glossy water distracted him from the runes so often that Deoli threatened to march him back inside the cabin. After that he devoted more attention to the lesson, but still his gaze slipped past the railing during lulls.

At first it was just the two of them reading alone, but as word spread they gained a small audience. Sailors’ love for stories aside, Thorin’s crew were mostly Longbeards, and the tale of the Valar’s War was tender to their hearts. Dwalin slouched big and hulking against the rail, carving a bit of driftwood. Oin, the ship’s medic, showed up once and puffed at his pipe. Gloin was a regular attendant and nodded along.

One night Uncle Thorin came. He leaned against a cabin wall and tracked Fili with hawk-like, contemplative eyes. Afterward Deoli drew him to the side and spoke in hushed tones just outside Fili’s range, which meant they were talking about him.

Adults. Always thinking they were subtle.

Pretending sleepiness, Fili let his head fall forward and cupped his ears under the cover of his hair to hear better.

“… about anything?” Deoli was asking. He sounded worried. “— — stories ——-?”

Uncle Thorin’s voice was deeper and carried better. “That depends. Some of the tales say the seafolk are harmless, even benevolent. Like the fey who guide travelers and grant penny wishes.” He shook his head. “But a greater part of the stories say otherwise. They speak of ships sunk without warning, of men devoured alive, of sailors lured into the sea by a face in the water and found drowned days later.”

At this last Deoli paled, visible even from this distance. Thorin put a hand on his shoulder and said, “The best you can do is keep an eye on the boy. If he continues to look for this creature…”

Fili stopped eavesdropping before he was caught. His grip on _The Shattering of the Lamps_ tightened until the binding creaked.

He was torn. He wanted, more than anything, to catch one more glimpse of his seafolk-boy. To see those dark eyes, wide and breathless as they met his. Part of him burned with the yearning to dive overboard and find him, see if his laughter really was as light as the moon as the stories said.

But he also didn’t want to give up this new nightly ritual with the sailors. A quarter of the crew was his family, but since he’d begun reading all of the sailors had warmed to him. They found excuses to chat with him and invite him to their games of Six Spokes. This was unusual because he was the merchant’s son, so sailors usually avoided him, and he found himself loathe to give this new familiarity up.

In the end, though, it was the fret lines on Deoli’s face that decided him.

The next night he put his back to the railing as he read. Though his skin itched with the urge to turn around and look at the sea, the relief in his father’s posture made it bearable.

Fili felt a little guilty, like he was deceiving someone. He wasn’t sure whom.

That night after the story of Tulkas and Nessa, Gloin loitered nearby. Throughout this voyage Fili had dogged Gloin excitedly for seafolk stories up until now, but tonight he avoided his cousin’s eyes.

“Any sign of your seafolk friend?” Gloin asked while Deoli was preoccupied.

Fili hesitated, glancing down. “No.”

Gloin stroked his red beard. “Pity. I would have loved to see one. Still,” he clapped Fili’s shoulder, “it was amazing you got to. Feel blessed, lad.”

Fili looked up. “How so?”

“Out of the dozens of sailors I’ve asked, not one of them claim that privilege. They’re a shy lot, the seafolk. You have to watch carefully or they’ll disappear before you can blink, like the _seluj_.” He meant the rare green ray of light that sometimes flared across the horizon at sunset. Fili had never been able to spot it. “Even then, it’s said if you see one it’s only because they chose to let you. That’s why you’re blessed.”

Despite himself Fili brightened. “Maybe the young ones are just less skittish?”

Gloin chuckled. “I like that thought, lad.” He patted Fili’s shoulder once more, then departed. Fili watched him go, feeling happier.

Even if his sea-boy never returned, Fili was special for having met him.

 

 

It was the next morning, as Deoli was teaching him to check the barrels in the cargo hold, that the idea popped into his head: Maybe his seafolk friend would feel less shy if Fili gave him a gift.

“… too humid and the staves might swell,” Deoli was saying when this notion seized control of Fili’s mouth.

“Da, what sort of gifts did you give Ma when you first met?”

His father halted. “Beg your pardon?”

“When you and Ma were getting to know each other,” Fili clarified, “what did you give her to make her like you?”

Deoli released the barrel they’d been using as an example, running his hand through his merchant braids. He looked wry. “I prefer to think that she liked me for more than my gifts. What brings this about, son?”

Fili thought quickly. His father didn’t want him thinking about the seafolk. Instead he dropped his gaze and lied, “I miss Ma. I’d like to hear a story about her.”

It worked. Dwalin called Gloin a romantic sop, but Fili’s parents were just as bad about each other. Deoli’s gaze softened and he sat back on a stack of crates. “I suppose homesickness is natural, isn't it? This is the longest you've been away. But we’re near the end; your Uncle Thorin says we’re only three days from the Lonely Island. You’ll see your mother soon.”

That was unexpected good news. He really did miss Dis. But it also meant that he had better hurry to give the gift. “Will you please tell me about when you met?”

Deoli rubbed his trim beard. “Very well.” He reminisced for a moment, a smile hinting about his mouth. “If you must know the truth, your mother and I didn't get along at the start. She knows how to bear a grudge, that lady, and I’d just gotten your Uncle Thorin arrested.”

“What?!” Fili exclaimed.

Deoli laughed. “It’s a long story, and not one suitable for minors. Suffice to say, even after your uncle and I made amends she regarded me with suspicion for two years.”

To Fili this was new and genuinely interesting. “How did you get her to like you, then?”

“I hired your uncle to work as captain. She had to invite me for dinner after that. But by the stars, it was the most uncomfortable meal I've ever had. Your mother glared so fiercely I was terrified that she would carve into me instead of the roast.”

“Did she?”

“No doubt she wanted to! But she had to respect me as her brother’s employer. Thorin vouched for my character later on - or so he says. Eventually, she tolerated me well enough to speak to me without a table between us.”

Fili leaned forward. “And then she fell in love with you?”

Deoli chuckled. “Not so simply. I was beard over britches for her long before she even considered me a friend, so I offered to do her family little favors. Gave your Uncle Thorin a bit of a raise. Promoted him to Captain after his third voyage.” He looked thoughtful. “Now that you mention it, I do recall a few gifts changing hands.”

Aha! “What kind of gifts?”

“Small things at first. Wool, linen, blackberry wine from Fangorn. I always excused them as surplus goods or bonuses for Thorin, but she saw through me like water.”

While that was fascinating, Fili couldn’t imagine giving any of those things to one of the seafolk. He’d heard they didn’t wear clothes; and if they were really part fish, did they drink wine? How did one drink underwater? His mind tried to wrap around it and gave up.

“What else?” he asked.

“Well, eventually - after your uncle interrogated me - I started bringing her more traditional tokens. Combs, fine silk, beads. You know, I might have… ah!” Deoli crossed the hold to another stack of crates, lifting up a medium chest. It was made of oak, with a small iron lock. Deoli produced a key from his vest pocket and opened it.

Nestled inside was a jumble of trinkets, for lack of better word: beads, hairpins, jewelry with foreign stones. Things pretty enough to catch the eye at market, but not valuable enough to warrant protective pouches.

Fili’s semi-trained eye sifted through them and alighted on a thin strap. Darting a glance at his father, he lifted it from the chest.

It was a braided leather hair ornament. From one end dangled a sparkling stone. The other end was cinched with a thin metal hoop from which the loose tails of the braid extended, meant to be tied into hair. The design was common, but the leather smelled of oil that meant it had been treated against water.

Fili pictured it tangled in his seafolk’s dark hair, flying in currents and glittering in shafts of light beneath the waves.

“An interesting choice.” Deoli was watching him curiously.

Fili’s fingers tightened around it. “Can I - _may_ I have it, please?”

“If you can tell me what it’s made of.”

Fili grinned. “Fire-quartz,” he said, “and elk leather treated with camellia oil. The metal is just tin.”

“Good. And the pattern?”

He faltered. He had daydreamed through the lecture on regional weaves.

Taking pity, Deoli said, “A half-round fingerloop weave from Rohan. The pattern originated in West Emnet, but is used as far as Dunland.” He tousled Fili’s hair. “Keep it. You’re learning well.”

Fili beamed and tucked it into his pocket. His father lifted out another bauble.

“Now,” Deoli said. “What can you tell me about this one, hmm?”

 

 

Once he escaped the impromptu lesson, Fili set about delivering his gift. After discarding several adventurous but unfeasible ideas, he decided on just tying it to the end of a rope and lowering it overboard. Hopefully his seafolk would see it.

To this end he brought a book for an alibi and squirreled himself into an out-of-the-way corner by the starboard aftcastle. There he hunkered for most of the afternoon, gripping his rope and trying to act casual when crew members eyed him.

At one point Uncle Thorin passed by and Fili thought in panic he had been caught out, but the older dwarf just raised an eyebrow and continued on.

The sun here was so warm and lovely, and there was a gull rustling somewhere in the sails. His book occupied him for a little bit, but mostly he daydreamed about underwater palaces and treasure, the sweet slow song of the ocean…

He awoke to the dinner bell clanging. The sky was turning red. Had he dozed off?

His hand was empty. The rope!

Heart sinking, Fili scrambled to his feet in time to face his father, who was just rounding the cabin. Deoli’s brow smoothed out at the sight of his son.

“There you are,” he said with a smile. “Cook mentioned you didn’t turn up for lunch. I thought perhaps you had fallen over the side again.”

Automatically Fili flushed. “It was just the once! Two years ago!”

His father laughed. “Yet has provided teasing rights for a lifetime. Come along soon, else I won’t be able to fend Dwalin off your portion much longer.”

Fili nodded and watched him go. Then he sighed and turned around to collect his book.

That was when he spotted the tail of the rope slithering over the railing. He lunged before he knew it and just barely snatched hold as it went over the side.

_Something tugged on the other end!_

Fili gasped, peering at the water. Like watching for the _seluj_ he dared not even blink lest he miss the seafolk. Green waters churned against the side of the ship. Was that a tail? - just froth? He leaned out further.

Then the rope slackened, and drifted limply.

Whatever it was, it had been frightened off. Disappointment sank like a stone in his stomach.

The sky was dark and heavy as his mood, purple and brooding. The wind had acquired a chilling edge, and his stomach grumbled. Blinking back frustration, Fili roused himself and hauled the rope in. It had been a long shot anyway.

As the end of the rope came into view, he stopped in surprise.

His careful knot had been picked loose. The gift had been taken.

 

 

Fili skipped into the mess-room and slid onto his customary stool, ignoring his father’s sideways glance.

“Something good happen, laddie?” asked Dwalin.

“Yes!” Fili couldn’t keep the beam from his face.

Uncle Thorin pushed a bowl at him with unusual haste. “Eat quickly tonight, nephew. We have a storm arriving in less than an hour.”

That drew Deoli’s attention. “So soon, you think? The clouds are barely visible on the East.”

Thorin shook his head. “I know the look of that sky. Those clouds seem far off now, but will rise faster and fiercer than a dragon. You two should get to your cabin as soon as possible. Dwalin, tell the crew to furl the topsail and take in four reefs on the main, but leave the mizzen mast. We can scud a little further before furling the mizzen.”

Deoli’s eyebrows shot up. “Four reefs? Thorin, isn’t that-” Uncle Thorin looked at him without a word. Deoli subsided.

Dwalin stood from the bench and guzzled his remaining soup, then dragged a forearm across his mouth before tossing the bowl at the washing-barrel on his way out. Uncle Thorin also rose to to depart, nodding to his family and leaving just Fili and his father with the cook.

Fili looked up at Deoli. “Uncle Thorin tells you what to do a lot, doesn’t he.”

One side of his father’s mouth quirked. “Yes, well, he is captain. I may own the vessel while at port, but on the sea this ship belongs to him.” He glanced over. “And it’s ‘often,’ not ‘a lot’. Do eat quickly, please.”

True enough, within an hour the _Wind’s Key_ pitched so strongly to have knocked Deoli over had he been foolish enough to try standing. Fili had to lunge to catch their reading-lamp before it tumbled off the desk. After that his father canceled their nightly lesson. They extinguished the lantern in their tiny room in the aftcabin and laid together to wait for sleep, listening to the loud slap of waves against wood and thudding of sailors’ boots on the planks outside.

In the darkness, the scent of his father - lamp oil, seawater, and books - folded around him like an old and beloved blanket. Deoli had not undressed for bed, so the rough brocade waistcoat scratched against Fili’s cheek. He pressed closer anyway. When he closed his eyes, the steady thump-thump of Deoli’s heartbeat measured a slow counterpart against the quick pulsing of the tides in his blood. He remembered that, even decades later.

When he awoke, it was to screams and lightning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Seafaring note: On a ship with three masts like the Wind’s Key, the mizzen is the mast closest to the aft, or the “back” of the ship. On Deoli’s ship the mizzen is a lateen sail, which means it’s triangular as opposed to square. The canvas is tethered to a “boom,” a cross-beam which can be rotated. This gives the ship maneuverability and the ability to sail upwind.


	2. Prologue, part 2: The Storm

The lightning he felt as a tingle, a tiny jolt skimming up his arms and neck, and the porthole in their door flashed with light. But the thunderclap he felt in his _bones_. The air itself trembled with its arrival.

 

His father leapt from bed, throwing open the door. Lightning flared and Fili flinched, but not before the silhouette of his father, still fully dressed and haloed in white light in the doorway, seared itself into the darkness behind his eyelids.

 

Thunder cracked again, slamming through the howl of wind. Fili tumbled from bed, reaching for his trousers. “Da?!”

 

Deoli turned briefly. “Stay inside, Fili!” he yelled back, but of course Fili could have none of that. He was already moving as his father vanished.

 

The _Wind’s Key_ rolled and bucked beneath him like a panicked horse. He stumbled twice on his way to the door of their cabin, and braced against the door frame as cold rain blasted his skin. Everything on the main dark was dark and chaotic. Running sailors were visible only as wet outlines gleaming in the jerking light spilled by swinging lanterns. Dwarves were hauling on ropes, shouting. Someone tumbled to the planks in the tumult and no one spared a breath to help him.

 

Fili looked around and spotted his father vanishing around the corner of the aftcabin. He darted in pursuit and found himself facing the heart of the madness.

 

The stern deck was strewn with sailors. Uncle Thorin stood beneath the mizzenmast, bellowing upwards.

 

Fili saw the reason in a heartbeat.

 

The mizzen lateen sail was still unfurled and bulging madly with wind. Its boom had snapped free of the cables which tethered it, and sailors were hauling desperately on ropes flung over the beam to keep it from swinging. Before Fili’s eyes a violent gust of wind caught the sail and a dwarf was yanked cleanly off his feet as the boom lurched. The stern groaned under the strain.

 

Deoli caught Uncle Thorin’s arm and Thorin gestured sharply, lantern swinging. A flash of lightning illuminated them for just an instant - Thorin’s angry brows, Deoli’s set jaw, both shouting. Then darkness closed in again and in the next flash Deoli’s merchant braids gleamed among the crew beneath the mizzenmast.

 

Fili started forward as well but halted, realizing he’d be useless. Helpless with worry, he gripped the bulwark railing and peered through the driving rain, heart in his throat.

 

His eye was caught by a dark figure slithering up the mizzenmast. It was Sabiren, the youngest and lithest of the sailors. He gained hold on the boom and straddled it, hauling himself toward the knots trapping the canvas sail.

 

Uncle Thorin bellowed again. Sabiren’s knife flashed out and severed the first of the knots; a corner of the triangular sail whipped free and the tension on the ropes lessened. The straining crew below cheered.

 

In a moment Fili realized Sabiren’s intent: with the tether cables snapped there was no way to furl the sail, and the force of the tempest might very well snap the mast in half - worse, it might rip the mast from the keel and sink them. Both scenarios spelled disaster, and with every passing second the uncontrollably swinging sail was dragging them deeper into the storm.

 

The only solution was to cut the sail free. The canvas would be lost, but the caravel would survive.

 

Sabiren crawled on and sheared free the second knot, then the third and fourth. With each flash of his blade the dwarves below gained greater footing.

 

But as he reached the fifth, a violent gust flared the remaining sail wide. The boom jerked leeward. Caught with knife already raised and gripping the boom with nothing but his thighs, the young dwarf was hurled off and soared, screaming, overboard.

 

Uncle Thorin’s bellow cut through the wind. Horrified, Fili released the railing and stepped forward.

 

And then sound and light  _exploded_.

 

Lightning struck the mizzenmast.

 

A wall of sizzling air flung Fili from his feet, and his head slammed against something. His vision went white, then dark; electricity streaked across his skin; the world spun from its axis. For a minute there was nothing but the ringing pain in his skull and a strange warmth dripping down his back.

 

Stunned and senseless, he curled against the pitching deck, mouth open and chest heaving in silent gasps, until the ringing blurred into a high buzz. The buzz fluctuated, and slowly, like the strands of a rope fraying, unraveled into individual screams.

 

There were the sailors’ yells. The shriek of rending wood. His father’s cry was swept into the howl of wind like a tiny sparrow in a storm, fragile and helpless. But one sound rose above all, indescribably gargantuan, vibrating in his bones like a thunderclap under his flesh.

 

It was the _craaa-AAACCCKKK!_ of the _Wind’s Key_ coming apart.

 

Terror spurred Fili into action. He rolled to his elbows, dragged an arm up to clear his eyes of rain and blood, and through the throbbing pain squinted up.

 

The enormous mizzenmast was blazing. Taller than the Church of Illuvatar, it was falling, wreathed in flames fierce as the Shattered Lamps plummeting to Arda in celestial fire.  Over half a ton of burning timber toppled, silent as the executioner’s axe, onto a fallen dwarf trapped in its path. Flames shone off silver buttons.

 

 _“DA!”_ he screamed.

 

Too late.

 

The mizzenmast impacted the stern, the ship buckled with a roar like thunder and, suddenly, Fili found himself catapulted into the air. The world fell out beneath him.

 

His weightless body cleared the railing.

 

The tides in his blood pulsed.

 

He soared, like Sabiren, soundlessly over the dark and fathomless sea.

 

It was like falling into eternity. He fell with eyes wide open, but could only see his father’s corpse.

 

 

 

 

 

The sea which received Fili was not the warm, friendly creature he had known all his young life. It was a feral, whirling beast driven to frenzy by the storm, snarling at everything in its confusion. When he slammed through the surface it attacked with frigid fangs and raking claws. Currents sucked him down into the black abyss.

 

The cold of it shocked some instinct awake: though his mind felt curiously blank, he found his limbs striking out, struggling against that great weight which pressed him down. Black water dragged at his boots, tore at his clothes as though bent on devouring him. His lungs burned.

 

Fili burst out of water and into pounding rain. Air! Sweet, salty, not enough.

 

All around him was pitch-black. He was too close to see the deck lights, then - close enough to get dragged under, murmured some part of his mind which was not numbed by shock. He should distance himself, get far enough that the sailors might see him and…

 

A wave taller than a mountain closed over his head.

 

When he re-emerged, shivering and choking up salt and bile, he was further from the ship. Far enough to see it and be seen, in fact. Only, he was also far enough to see something which struck fresh terror in the part of his mind still functioning.

 

Profiled perfectly against the black skies of the storm, the tall, proud silhouette of the _Wind’s Key_ stood burning.  As he stared, uncomprehending, the stern fractured open and a chunk toppled off, exposed skeleton rimmed in blazing cinders. It collapsed into the sea with a sound like the scream of Arda as Morgoth cracked it in three.

 

_To join our forefathers in their silent graves deep._

 

Fili’s father was dead. His world cracked apart. Their beloved ship, their crew - Uncle Thorin, Dwalin, Gloin, Oin, the hands and faces of his childhood - would die together in the depths of the sea which they loved, the sea which betrayed them.

 

The terrified scream within him finally tore free. He heard it almost distantly. It was the scream of a young boy losing his family, the scream of a child about to die.

 

It was a foolish thing. He had less air when the next wave closed over him.

 

Enveloped deep inside the cold, eternal blackness, his body felt limp, leaden. A thick blanket of protective numbness was wrapping around his mind, futilely shielding him from horror.

 

This was it, then. The end of his quick life. His family. The Line of Durin. He was going to die here, wretched, cold, and helpless. His body would drift on the tides, maybe even as far as the shores of the Lonely Island. He could see his mother’s weeping face as they found him. The chairs at her table standing empty in a dark kitchen, like one of those tragic plays he hated where everyone dies, even the hero.

 

Da was waiting on the other side. It would not be so bad, would it, to simply close his eyes and let the sea sing him softly into sleep...

 

_Aule, have you forgotten me…?_

 

A whisper. Emerging quietly from the sea. He listened dully.

 

_Iluvatar, have I not served you?_

 

Another whisper, from a different direction, breaking through the fog of death like a faint light through clouds. Who…?

 

And the first whispers were joined by others, quietly swelling into an susurrus thunderous as the rustling of a hundred wings. _Was I not your beloved? I have so much left to live for - so much left to do in your name - Yavanna spare me I want to live I cannot die this way!_

 

Blood pulsed through his veins. The blood of Durin. The blood of kings.

 

It roared like the ocean.

 

Clarity snapped back to Fili like a jolt of cold air. His lethargy vanished. He was underwater, lungs near to collapsing. Kicking into action, he clawed upwards until he tore through surface into pounding rain. He was soaked, trembling, terrified - but the will to live blazed under his skin with renewed energy.

 

Something touched his leg.  Shark? His breath hitched and he kicked away furiously.

 

Another brush across his back. He twisted in anger, slapping the water. But this cost him his balance and the sea dragged him down into the crushing depths. Caught off guard, he tried to breathe and foul water filled his lungs.

 

Something latched around his waist. Before Fili could even think he was hauled through water at impossible speed, erupting into open air in scant seconds.  The thing held him aloft while he convulsed and choked out what felt like half the Rhovanion. Although the storm and pelting rain obscured almost everything, he could feel the grip holding him awkwardly under one shoulder. Still coughing, Fili twisted and patted blindly at… tentacles? Fins?

 

Hands.  Someone had come for him!

 

Hope and relief shot through him so sharp he nearly sobbed with it. _Da!_ he thought, dizzy with joy. But it couldn’t be, because Deoli had been - his mind veered away. Uncle Thorin, then? But these limbs were slender and… and webbed?

 

Disbelieving, Fili slid trembling hands up the slick arms, encountered a curve like shoulders, then wet hair whipping about on the waves.  His fingertips touched something.

 

A leather strap. Braided, with a stone at the end.

 

Wonder bubbled up in his frozen chest, spreading warmth like mulled cider on a biting winter’s day. Coughing again, Fili gasped, “You - are you the seafolk?”

 

There was no response, or at least no time to hear it, because at that moment a wave so enormous it blotted out the sky loomed up and engulfed them. Together they spun underwater, Fili’s arms flinging instinctively around the other’s back. A slim torso undulated against his; a tail knocked hard against his legs. They shot upwards in one smooth sweep.

 

Around them sea tossed and howled. Seawater whipped across his face. The peaks and troughs of waves bucked high in rebellion.

 

But the seafolk had gotten a better grip now and that unseen body, stunningly warm and fragile in the frigid sea, surged determinedly against his. With each heave they sliced through the frothing water as though merely skimming, as though the Great Rhovanian Sea were little more than a puddle.

 

Unable to do anything but hang on, Fili yelped as jutting protrusions on the seafolk’s back pressed against the soft underflesh of his arms, sharp and spiny where they were jostled by the choppy sea. Panicked, without thinking he gripped the other’s shoulder, maybe to push away. Hard scales met his palm.

 

Fear flashed through him like the rumble of Uncle Thorin’s voice. “Men devoured alive… lured into the sea and found drowned days later…” Where was he being taken?!

 

Fili swallowed and remembered the hair ornament. The seafolk wasn’t a monster. He was trying to save Fili, not - not take him to his lair to be devoured. Mahal save him, he was drowned either way!

 

So he closed his eyes and clung tightly. He didn’t open them again, even when alien fins knocked against his fingers. He didn’t want to see the burning ship. He didn’t want to see the storm that had killed his family. He didn’t want to see _anything_.

 

It felt like dreaming. If he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed, he could almost pretend the swell and curl of the waves was the _Wind’s Key_ rocking beneath his bed. The darkness was that of their cozy cabin.

 

These wet arms belonged to his father.

 

 

 

 

 

An hour passed before the horrible storm gave up its rage and withdrew sullenly from the sky. The pelting rain thinned to a drizzle. Through the ghostly clouds faint moonlight brushed gleaming silver crescents onto the outlines of the sea: wave tips, cloud edges. When Fili roused to look, the moon had painted wet shining curves on his savior’s skin. Eyes studied him back, big and curious.

 

They slowed into a drift. Warm breath puffed against his cheek. The seafolk pressed close to his ear and… chittered. The sounds were musical but made no sense, like birdsong, or a cricket chirping.

 

“What?” Fili rasped, then coughed up water. He was so tired. He was alive, but the thought brought him no particular emotion. He felt empty. The energy from before was gone.

 

Blearily he looked around. Why had they stopped? Did the seafolk need a break from swimming? The thought throbbed in his head. Did it make sense?

 

The seafolk chittered again and pointed. Something was gradually taking shape in the water, bobbing in the shadows. As he squinted, the silhouette solidified into an oddly angular structure, with jagged edges, a little like a bowl with a chipped rim. It was wider than Fili was tall, and wooden, and… a raft.

 

The seafolk’s chest flicked against his again. As they drew close Fili reached up and grabbed an edge. Together they heaved him into the raft.  His palms and thighs stung where edges of the wood had scraped him but, numbed by exhaustion, he barely noticed the pain. He sprawled in the rainwater pooled at the bottom, trembling from cold, fatigue, and emotion.

 

The moon was still out. That was odd. It felt like an entire day, an entire year, an eternity had passed since he fell asleep on the _Wind’s Key_ , in the warmth of his father’s arms. But it was the same night.

 

Like a sail without wind, he sagged and fell into oblivion.


End file.
